


Five Times Sherlock Serenaded John to Sleep and One Time He Didn’t Have To

by stripyjumpers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Nightmares, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Texting, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-25 07:02:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17720402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stripyjumpers/pseuds/stripyjumpers
Summary: Five times Sherlock plays the violin in order to help John get to sleep, and one time he doesn't have to.





	Five Times Sherlock Serenaded John to Sleep and One Time He Didn’t Have To

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I'm actually posting a new fic on here, it's been so long x) But nonetheless I hope you enjoy this fluffy/slightly angsty 5 + 1 fic! ^^
> 
> Also, I feel like I might have read something similar at some point, so feel free to let me know if I’m like completely copying another fic without realizing it x)
> 
> Trigger warnings for descriptions of dark thoughts, nightmares, violence, and past traumas.

1.

John woke with a start, a breath trapped in his lungs. He sat straight up in his bed and gasped for air until he finally felt the breath return to his chest.

John sighed and let his head fall into his hand. He could feel the cool sweat from his forehead on his palm as he willed his racing heartbeat to slow. This was the third time he’d woken up in such a state that night.

He knew that the recent lack of casework was likely to blame for this sudden slew of nightly terrors. He knew it wasn’t healthy, but the rush of adrenaline and the thrill of the chase were what filled his veins with excitement and gave him purpose. And too much domesticity allowed for his mind to wander, to go down paths that he would rather not revisit. Or worse, to make new paths, ones which lead to dangers that neither he nor Sherlock made it back from; his body’s twisted way of saying that it’s _bored_.

John turned his head to look at the angry red numbers on his alarm clock, the reminder that he should be asleep burning into his vision.

For the umpteenth time that night, John angrily hurled his body toward the other side of the bed, foolishly thinking that somehow facing another direction would make the horrific, jumbled mess in his head disappear.

John closed his eyes tightly and wished for sleep to take him, but it stubbornly refused. Just as he was about to say sod it all and spend the night with a cup of tea and a swig of brandy in front of the telly, he heard the faint beginnings of music coming from the sitting room.

It was Sherlock playing his violin.

John wasn’t surprised that Sherlock was still awake, he often lead a much more nocturnal lifestyle, but rarely would he play so late, and rarely would it be something so lovely. Usually, if Sherlock were to play at this hour, it would be harsh streaks of frustration across the strings at his inability so solve whatever case he was working on.

But this, John thought, this melody was soft. Soothing. A drifting, lilting, subtle sound that flowed effortlessly through the air and into John’s ears. Perhaps Sherlock had made a breakthrough in the case and was celebrating, or perhaps he was simply playing to help him think, as he was wont to do.

Whatever the reason, John found himself easily following the notes instead of dark thoughts, found his mind wandering to a blissful sort of nothingness, and before he knew it, he was sound asleep.

 

2.

 

By the time John returned to the flat after his day at the surgery, he was well beyond exhausted. His feet just barely carried him up the seventeen steps to the sitting room, and when he opened the door and stepped inside, it was all he could do to fall straight onto the sofa and close his eyes.

“Long day, I take it,” came Sherlock’s voice from where he sat in his chair.

“Good deduction,” John breathed into the pillow, his eyes still closed.

“Clearly didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Clearly,” John mumbled, half asleep by the time the word left his mouth.

* * *

_John was running as fast as his feet would carry him. He barreled down the dark, seemingly never-ending alleyway and tried as hard as he could manage to not look back._

_“Sherlock!” he screamed. His voice echoed as if in an empty theater, resounding off the walls and buzzing through his head._

_“Sherlock!” he tried again. He didn't know how, but he knew he was getting closer to him._

_And before John knew it, Sherlock was there up ahead, backed into a corner behind a skip, and a man dressed in all black was towering over him, wielding a metal pipe like a baseball bat._

_The man raised his arm to swing, and John tried to rush forward to stop him, but it suddenly felt like he was wading through molasses._

_He wouldn't reach Sherlock in time._

_He wouldn't be there to protect him._

_He wouldn't—_

“Christ!” John breathed as he bolted awake from the nightmare. Bleary eyed, John tried to take stock of his surroundings and found himself somewhat confused. He was on the sofa in the sitting room, covered with a blanket, and there was music coming from somewhere. Beautiful, melodic, drifting waves of sound that soothed his frayed nerves.

Through half-closed eyes, he saw the fuzzy silhouette of Sherlock swaying softly by the window as he played his violin. John smiled sleepily, thinking perhaps he was still dreaming. Comforted by his hazy thoughts and entranced by the beautiful music, it wasn’t long before John slipped into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

 

3.

 

John sat in his armchair in front of the fire, his chin resting on his fist as he looked absently into the flickering orange flames.

A tray of barely eaten takeaway sat on the table next to his chair. The telly was on behind him, but all of the sounds were muffled to his ears.

John knew that Sherlock had been sitting across from him when they’d gotten back from Scotland Yard, but he couldn’t be sure now, his peripheral vision seemingly becoming more and more hazy.

“John.” Sherlock was calling him, John’s mind knew that, but his body made no move to acknowledge it.

“John,” Sherlock repeated, his voice coming in louder that time. He must have still been sitting across from him this whole time, John thought.

“John, I said could you turn off that program?”

John flinched, suddenly back in reality. Time seemed to speed up around him as he looked back at Sherlock for the first time in what felt like hours.

“Hm?” he asked.

“The television. Please could you turn it off. You’re clearly not watching it and I believe you’re sitting on the remote.”

“Oh, right,” John mumbled, looking at his chair and finding the remote wedged between the cushions. He flicked off the TV and went back to staring at the fire.

He knew it was getting late. He knew he should go to bed soon. But he couldn’t. Because all he could see was the suspect from the case they had solved earlier that night. The man had looked to be somewhere in his late thirties, with dark brown hair thinning slightly at the top. He spoke with a familiar Irish lilt and his dark brown eyes seemed to flicker with a malevolent glint.

In reality, the resemblance to Jim Moriarty was not overwhelming, but it was enough to send John back. It was enough to cause images of him to flash in front of John’s eyes, to hear his voice resounding in his head. It was enough to send his mind reeling back to memories that he had no desire to revisit. And John knew that as soon as he fell asleep, it would all be out of his control. The monsters of his past would come to greet him whether he wanted them to or not. And he would spend the night in an endless circle of waking from a nightmare only to fall back into another one.

And so he sat. And watched the fire. And decidedly did not go up to bed.  

It was a little while later that John noticed Sherlock get up off his chair out of the corner of his eye. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock moving about the room, shuffling papers, opening and closing a case of some kind.

“I’m working on some new compositions,” Sherlock said, snapping John’s focus to where he stood in front of the window with his violin, setting up sheet music on his stand. “I thought I would do a bit of work on them tonight. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Hm? No, go ahead.” John shrugged. Watching Sherlock play would likely prove more entertaining than the fireplace.

And so Sherlock got his music in order and began to play. John watched him for a time through slightly hooded eyes, Sherlock’s body swaying swiftly with the music. The song sounded familiar, he must have heard Sherlock play it before at one point or another.

As Sherlock’s song wore on, John’s eyelids began to drop. He knew that there was some reason he hadn’t wanted to go to sleep, but he was so tired, and the music was so lovely, like a lullaby, and closing his eyes just felt so good, he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

After a few more feeble attempts to keep his eyes open, John gave in and closed them, resting his head back on his chair. He was asleep within minutes. And when he awoke the next morning, he found that he had slept soundly through the night, and couldn’t recall having a single nightmare.

 

4.

 

“John, my mother has invited me down for the weekend to celebrate her birthday. She’d like you to come as well,” Sherlock said the second John walked through the door.

“What? Why?”

“She likes you. For some reason.”

“Oi!”

“Will you come?”

John sighed. “Yeah, alright. But only ‘cause I like your mum, too. Keeps you in line somehow, that woman.”

“Yes, it’s very commendable. Now go and pack your things; we’re leaving in an hour.”

John rolled his eyes. It was just like Sherlock to spring plans on him the moment he got home from a long day at the surgery, but he had to admit, a quiet weekend in Sherlock’s cozy family home did sound rather nice.

Shaking his head fondly, John headed up the stairs to his room to go pack.

* * *

John’s good spirits were dampened slightly upon entering his bedroom and seeing his mess of a bed from the night before. He’d been tossing and turning almost the entire night, leaving the sheets and duvet in a tangled heap that he’d had no time to fix that morning.

John wasn’t even entirely sure what had brought on this sudden bout of insomnia, but he supposed it was to be expected when one lead the sort of life he did with Sherlock. Or perhaps his therapist had been right about the PTSD after all, but either way, he hoped that whatever unseen force that was disrupting his sleep would be remedied by a few days spent in the quiet countryside.

John nodded to himself in assurance and made quick work of remaking the bed and packing a suitcase for the weekend.

* * *

After a quick dinner and a shower, John went to gather his things from upstairs as it was almost time for he and Sherlock to get going.

When John came back down to the sitting room, suitcase in hand, Sherlock was busy attempting to fit his laptop into his duffle bag.

“All set?” John asked.

“Almost. Damned thing won’t fit,” Sherlock complained.

John pointed to the computer in question. “That’s my laptop.”

“Yes. And it won’t fit.”

John let out an exasperated sigh, reminding himself to pick his battles. He went over and helped Sherlock to fit the laptop into the bag by simply moving a few things around. As he was zipping up the bag, he noticed Sherlock’s violin case sitting nearby.

“You’re bringing that with you?” John asked, gesturing to the violin.

“Never did finish those compositions from last month. Figured it’d give me something to do when the mind-numbing boredom sets in.”

“Hm. Lovely.”

John gave Sherlock’s duffle a final pat and went to go put his shoes and jacket on. Just a few hours of driving and then he’d be able to relax.

* * *

Sherlock’s family home was cozy and warm. Sherlock’s mother had tea waiting for them when they arrived, and Sherlock and John gave her the birthday presents they’d picked up for her along the way after John found out that Sherlock hadn’t gotten her anything.

The four of them went out to dinner, a quaint little restaurant tucked away in a tiny building. They drank wine, Sherlock sulked and pushed his food around with his fork instead of eating it, and they had celebratory cake at the end of the night which Sherlock did in fact eat.

It was later in the evening now and John and Sherlock were sat in the sitting room in front of the fire, enjoying another cup of tea. Mr and Mrs Holmes had retired to bed, leaving the two of them to sit in companionable silence.

John looked down at the half-empty mug of tea in his hand and realized that he didn’t want to finish it, because then what other reason would he have to stay downstairs and avoid going to bed? Even away from the bustle of London, and even after a lovely evening spent in good company, John still feared that his night terrors would rear their ugly heads and leave him tossing and turning once more. But John also knew that he couldn’t avoid his problems forever. And who knew, maybe by some miracle he would have a restful sleep after all, and he’d never know unless he tried.

John steeled himself and quickly downed the rest of his tea. He cleared his throat and got up, clenching his fist at his side.

“Well, I’m heading up,” John said.

“Hm,” Sherlock mumbled noncommittally, his face buried in a book.

“Night.”

Sherlock looked up at him. “Goodnight, John.”

* * *

Later that night, John lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling after waking from a particularly vivid nightmare. He hoped that he hadn’t been screaming out loud, but he assumed that he must have been making at least some level of noise going by the slight soreness of his throat.

John turned on his side to face the wall and closed his eyes tightly as if he could force himself to sleep just by closing his eyes tightly enough. But John’s face quickly softened when he heard the tendrils of music flowing up from downstairs. Sherlock must be working on those compositions, John thought.

He listened for a while as the soothing sounds traveled through the air. It was oddly apt, John realized, that Sherlock should start playing such a calming melody so soon after John woke from a night terror. John furrowed his brow, thinking back to the hazy memories he had over the past few months of Sherlock’s violin playing coinciding with his insomnia.

John briefly entertained the thought that Sherlock was playing deliberately for him, but his thoughts quickly faded in clarity as he began to drift off to the gorgeous sound.

John was asleep before he could analyze Sherlock’s playing habits any further.

 

5.

 

_Are you there yet? SH_

_I’m bored already. SH_

_Lestrade won’t answer my texts. SH_

_Bored. SH_

_Still bored. SH_

_Shall I experiment on the microwave? SH_

_Christ, Sherlock, I just got on the train._

John sent the text and rubbed a hand over his face. At least the incessant texts from Sherlock might provide him some entertainment during the medical conference.

_Get off the train. I’m bored. SH_

_It’s just two days, Sherlock. You’ll live._

_Barely. SH_

_Drama queen._

_Don’t you dare. SH_

John chuckled. He might just have some fun this weekend, after all.

* * *

John crossed his arms over his chest and let out a long sigh. He was horribly mistaken, as the conference was proving to be just as unbelievably dull as he’d anticipated. He could feel himself zoning out as the speaker at the podium droned on in a stilted, monotone voice.

John looked down at his pocket where his mobile was tucked away. He looked back up at the speaker, still only slightly aware of what he was saying, and decided to give in to temptation and take out his phone.

_Bored._

John smirked as he pressed send.

_That’s my line. SH_

_I knew you shouldn’t have gone. SH_

John laughed under his breath.

_Have you got a case?_

_Had one. Solved it. Bored now. SH_

_Play Cluedo._

_By myself? SH_

_No, with the skull._

_Very amusing. SH_

_Actually, I might do. Is it against the rules to play against oneself? SH_

_Not sure._

_I’ll look into it. Will keep you updated. SH_

_Ta._

John smiled down at his phone and thought maybe the next hour of this presentation wouldn’t be so dull after all.

* * *

It was almost ten o’clock by the time John got back to his hotel room. He and Sherlock had been texting throughout most of the evening, and John was grateful for the distraction. Now, though, he was looking forward to finally being able to relax.

John toed off his shoes and headed into the bathroom for a quick shower.

Once he was clean and dry and tucked under the duvet, John opened up his phone to see a new message from Sherlock.

_Mrs. Hudson threw away my bag of fingers. SH_

_Human fingers?_

_No, fish fingers. Yes, human! I was going to experiment on those! SH_

_Maybe don’t keep body parts next to the tuna salad?_

_Of course you take her side. SH_

_She makes us biscuits on a regular basis. I am most definitely on her side._

_If I made biscuits, would you allow me body parts in the fridge? SH_

_No._

_Your logic is flawed. SH_

_Your biscuits aren’t as good as Mrs. Hudson’s._

_Now I am fingerless and offended. SH_

_Make better biscuits then._

_I follow the recipes exactly! SH_

_And that’s your problem._

_I don’t understand. SH_

_Needs more flair. Less science._

_That’s it. I’m making biscuits now. SH_

_Oh god._

_They will be just as good if not better than Mrs. Hudson’s. SH_

_Right, well, good luck with that._

John shook his head fondly at his phone. He looked at the clock to his right and saw the late hour, feeling like he really ought to try to go to sleep now if he was going to get up early the next morning.

_It’s getting late. Think I’m gonna go to bed now. Try not to blow up the kitchen._

_Goodnight, Sherlock._

John stared at his phone screen for a few more moments in anticipation of a reply, but when none came he assumed that Sherlock had already dashed off to the kitchen and was hard at work experimenting with butter to sugar ratios.

John set his phone down on the bedside table, flicked off the lamp, and turned on his side to go to sleep.

After ten minutes of John lying perfectly still with his eyes closed, he was no closer to falling asleep than he had been when his head hit the pillow.

John repositioned himself in an attempt to get more comfortable, but it seemed no matter what wall he was facing or whether he slept on his stomach or his side, he still felt as if there were a buzzing ball of energy in his chest that kept him from properly winding down.

Another ten minutes of tossing and turning passed, and John was beginning to resign himself to the idea that he just might not sleep tonight, when his phone buzzed with a text. And another.

Bleary eyed, John sat up in bed and checked his phone. There were two messages from Sherlock. The first one was some sort of audio file, and the second one simply read _Goodnight, John._

John pressed play on the file, already having a hunch as to what it was, and his suspicions were confirmed when the sound of Sherlock playing his violin came through the phone.

Warmth filled John’s chest as he placed the phone down next to him and curled back up in the bed. Sherlock must have known that John would have trouble sleeping, which meant that he must have been playing deliberately to help him sleep all those other times, as well.

John fell asleep after a few minutes of listening, still smiling to himself.

 

+1

 

John had come home from the medical conference earlier that afternoon and was immediately swept up in a case with Sherlock, leaving him no time to bring up Sherlock’s recent violin playing habits.

The case had taken them to a stakeout at a billiards room, a chase through an abandoned warehouse, and a pile of paperwork in Lestrade’s office.   

It was almost midnight by the time they got back to the flat. The adrenaline rush had long since worn off and John was ready to fall straight into bed.

Mumbling a quick goodnight to Sherlock, John headed up to his room and flopped onto his bed, belatedly remembering to kick off his shoes. He was practically asleep before his shoes hit the floor.

* * *

_John was running. Running through the twisted hallways and dark, cold metal walls of the abandoned warehouse, the only light coming from the moonlight shining between the cracks of broken windows._

_Their suspect was on his tail. Sherlock was nowhere to be found._

_John looked back at the dark figure close behind him and tripped over a loose metal pipe._

_He crashed down onto the freezing concrete floor and looked up at the shadowy figure towering above him._

_It was too late._

_Where was Sherlock?_

_It was too late._

_It was too—_

John gasped for breath as his eyes snapped open. He sat straight up and put a hand to his chest, attempting to get his breath back.

After a few moments of trying and failing to take deep breaths, John began to hear an all too familiar sound coming from the sitting room.

Sherlock was playing for him again. John must have been making some sort of noise that alerted Sherlock to his sleeping troubles, and now he was playing for him to help him get back to sleep.

John sat in bed, hand still clutching his chest and grinning like an idiot. Perhaps it was the combination of still being half asleep, the enchantingly beautiful music, and the tail end of an adrenaline rush that made John get out of bed and head downstairs.

When John reached the entrance to the sitting room, he stopped dead in his tracks to stare at the image of Sherlock in his deep red dressing gown, facing the window and swaying lightly as he expertly pulled the bow across the strings.

John took a moment to steel himself before he walked determinedly over to Sherlock and stopped only a few inches from him.

Sherlock slowly lowered his violin and turned to face John.

“Just doing some composing,” Sherlock said.

John smirked.

“Of course you are.”

“Do you like it? There’s still a few things to tweak, but—“

John stopped Sherlock mid-sentence when he reached out and slowly took the violin from his hands. He carefully placed the instrument onto Sherlock’s chair before turning back to him.

“Come here,” John said.

He stepped forward until they were practically chest to chest, reached out to gently cup the back of Sherlock’s head, and pulled him in close.

John looked to Sherlock’s eyes for reassurance that this was okay, and when he got a small nod in response, he took the final leap and pulled Sherlock in to kiss him.

Sherlock’s lips were warm and pillowy soft, almost melting under the touch of his own. The two stood in the dimly lit room and exchanged chaste but passionate kisses for some time before breaking apart.

John closed his eyes and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s.

“Thank you,” he said.

“What for?”

“You know what for.”

Sherlock chuckled lightly under his breath.

“Anything for my blogger.”

John laughed. “You know, this might be a bit forward, but something else that always seems to help me sleep is…having someone else in bed with me.”

“Oh? And what do you propose we do, then?”

“What do you think?”

Sherlock took a slight step back and looked thoughtful for a moment.

“I sleep on the right side. I hog all the blankets. Sometimes I talk in my sleep for hours on end. Would that bother you?”

John shook his head. “Let’s just go to bed, yeah? We’ll discuss blanket arrangements some other time.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

John just grinned and took hold of Sherlock’s hand, giving his fingers a light squeeze. He led them to Sherlock’s bedroom where the two got comfortable under the duvet, quickly finding their preferred spots with Sherlock spooned up against John’s back.

And it didn’t matter that there was no melody to lull John to sleep that night, because having Sherlock there next to him was more soothing than any lullaby he’d ever heard.

John fell asleep pleasantly slowly and slept soundly through the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed! Also, this probably goes without saying but I'm obviously not trying to say that violin music is a magic cure-all for nightmares, it just happens to work for John :) 
> 
> And as always, comments are very much appreciated! ^^


End file.
